


The Corolla Chronicles

by isthisthedagger



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Crack, man who lives in car
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29158365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisthedagger/pseuds/isthisthedagger
Summary: Din Djarin is a courier who lives in his car, wears a motorbike helmet for all social interactions, and is maybe in a cult. His lifestyle is valid. When the world's strangest client sends him on the trial of a mysterious package, he suddenly finds himself enmeshed in an extremely complicated conspiracy involving animal empaths and a circus which is also a pyramid scheme.Intentionally stupid alternative universe story which retells the events of the first two seasons in a world which is - kind of - like our own, and dares to ask the question, "What if Grogu was really a small dog with a heart of gold?". Bring snacks.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	The Corolla Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Hi? Hello.
> 
> This is a retelling with... some liberties. Working out the real world equivalent for Star Wars stuff is hard, it turns out. Do not ask me where any of this is set.
> 
> Planning to do two chapters per, uh, Chapter, so this one just covers the first half of Chapter 1. Grogu's entrance will be worth it, I promise.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Or tolerate. Maybe it'll just make you hungry. That's okay. Food is good.

Din Djarin was a man who lived in his car.

Big freaking deal. Lots of people lived in their cars. Getting rid of the social stigma attached to men living in cars was an issue near and dear to Din’s heart. Society would be a happier place.

A car could be a home. All a home needed was four walls and a roof and a little bit of love, and his Toyota Corrola had that. Fine, it was smaller than the average home. Quite a bit smaller than the average car home, as far as he was aware, but size was immaterial. All those professionals living in cupboards in the middle of the city didn’t sweat it on matters of style. Why should he?

He had learned the hard way that many people didn’t understand the appeal of this lifestyle. In his brief attempts to network, his confession that he lived in a Toyota Corrola that he had named the Razor Crest had been met with confusion, pity, or the question, if you’re living in a car, why do you have a motorcycle helmet on? They didn’t even note the car’s name.

It was a good question. There was no way getting around it in most social interactions, because to Din’s everlasting regret, it wasn’t yet considered normal to wear a motorbike helmet in everyday life. The honest explanation was a little bit of an overshare – hi, yeah, I find talking to people so difficult and exhausting that I have to have a screen between me and the world to make it remotely bearable, haha, kill me – so he had to skim over it, which meant that most people left interactions with him as confused as when they began.

Whatever. Din lived a life as free of explanation as possible. Aside from motorbike driver, his job as a freelance courier made it at least a little bit normal to wear a helmet all the time. It was just what people associated with delivery guys, which worked fine for him.

Also, to be honest, most of his clients were weirder than him. He had patiently built a reputation for having absolutely zero interest in what was inside the packages he picked up and delivered, which meant that he was considered to be game for anything (correct). It attracted some… eccentrics, to the table. They’d offer him ornate rewards with bizarre catches or invite him to gatherings that definitely seemed like cult meetings, or start dropping personal details of their lives that they thought were relatable but absolutely seemed like off-cuts from the script of Eyes Wide Shut.

He kept a personal leaderboard of strange clients on a tiny little whiteboard in the back of the Razor Crest – any way to provide entertainment on the endless journeys up and down the motorways and backroads of whatever part of the country he had been called along to. Up until now, the reigning number #1 was the man in full ceremonial robes (unclear for what ceremony) who had sat Din down, made him several cups of tea and had talked for literally three hours about his personal opinions of every single Star Wars film, including the spin-offs. God, Din had wanted to die right there and then. He had entered that house disliking Star Wars and its irritating space wizard fairytale stories. He had left it hating those films more than he hated anything he had ever hated before. 

Sitting in front of him now, however, was a real contender for the top spot. His appearance was innocuous enough – the kindly face of an old man settling into the long exhale of retirement – but every one of his actions had provided quite a different impression. It was the accent that struck Din first. German, just about, but the weirdest fucking German that he had heard in his entire life. A parody of German. Call of Duty: World at War filtered through Google Translate and recited by an eight-year-old boy discovering accents German. It was performance art, he was certain of that. No human being spoke words that way.

The client – who hadn’t actually given a name, so he was ‘The Client’ until Din was told otherwise – had friends. A phalanx of four men, placed at the four corners of the room, had glared menacingly him from his entrance into the room, occasionally tapping their black jackets to suggest that there might be weapons inside. Din was more confused than frightened about this. There was clearly nothing hidden in their jackets, and the constant tapping had actually made that more obvious. It contributed to the surrealist air of the place, like he had fallen over arse-backwards into a parody of a David Lynch film.

“Delivering items is a complicated profession”, rasped the man in his baffling accent. Din nodded, because what the hell else was he supposed to do?

“I would like you to pick up an item of very high value to me”, the client continued. “It is of the utmost importance that this task is completed as quickly as possible.”

Din shrugged. Okay. Was the man going to explain what the item actually was, or…?

“The nature of the item is of no interest to you,” the man hissed, as if hearing Din’s thoughts. He fished out a plastic gizmo thing from his pocket, a bit like a key fob for a car, and handed it to Din. “The coordinates are here. Please complete it in due haste.”

Again, Din remained silent. The client was answering most of his own questions, and that worked fine by him. Anything which reduced his participation in the conversation. 

“Oh, and as a due down payment on the collection,” The client once more returned to his robes, which apparently had endless storage space. This time, he retrieved a solid bar of metal. 

This might as well happen, Din thought. 

He’d have a word with Greef Karga about this later. The man had pointed him towards plenty of helpful jobs in the past, but Din was beginning to suspect that this particular gig might have been an elaborate prank to keep him on his toes.

“This is the finest beskar”, the client informed Din, with an expectant gaze. “Its value is countless.”

“What do I use it for?” The question was out of Din’s mouth before he could stop himself. Stupid idiot. He’d done so well at not asking questions before this.

The client looked at him as if Din had asked the stupidest question anyone had ever asked before on the planet. “It is the finest beskar.”

Din took the block of steel. He couldn’t think of an immediate use for it. Maybe as a paperweight, if he ever used paper.

He nodded to indicate acceptance of this latest nonsense and made to exit this strange house and stranger situation. He’d get the job done, mostly because this guy seemed rich as hell (though he now faced the very real worry that all of his payment would be in metal blocks), but he wouldn’t be particularly happy about it.

Back in the car, he keyed in the coordinates for the package into his phone. The address was 120 miles away. Jesus, he thought. He ought to stock up on snacks.

He wondered if, somehow, the trip would be worth the exertion. Almost certainly not.

But he was a courier. This is what he did.


End file.
